Dammit. I’m in the
breakfast aisle in Publix, and I have no idea what the hell is good for me. I’m trying to eat more healthfully, but once
I’m in a grocery store, I’m a complete tool.
And reading the ingredients is no help, because for some reason it is
always in Russian or French or some damn language that I can’t decipher. Well, I did once manage to memorize that high
fructose corn syrup (HFCS) means Instant Death (ID). If you ingest it, you actually collapse right
there at the table. At least, that’s
what my sister Lori thinks.
Since I can’t afford a personal nutritionist, Lori serves
that function, albeit by phone. She
lives in northeast Ohio,
where her husband Doug hunts and fishes for all of their meat and she tends to
a garden for all of their vegetables. They
also scour the Internet daily for the latest conspiracy theories, like how HFCS
is an example of big corporations trying to kill us.
There’s not a whole lot to do in northeast Ohio.
Nutty theories aside, Lori is a good resource for all things
diet, so she’s gotten used to phones calls like this from me:
Ring! Ring!
Doug: “Lori, answer it!”
Lori: “I’m doing the
dishes! Why don’t YOU answer it?”
Doug: “I can’t hear you over
that phone ringing! Answer it!”
Lori: (drying off her hands to answer it) “Damn lazy ass.” (Into
phone) “Hello?”
Me, yelling over the sound of a loud bar at Happy Hour: “IS RANCH DRESSING LOW CARB?!?”
Lori: (Annoyed and sighing) “As long as you don’t go overb—”
Me, to someone else: “Dude,
shut the hell up. I’m talking to my
sister. Just because I don’t want to be
a lard ass like you doesn’t make me a homo.
Now get me a beer, Fat Boy.” (Into
phone) “What was that, Lori?”
Lori: “If you’ll eat it you’ll
die”.
Me: “Thanks!” (click)
She actually usually gives me accurate information, but I
guess over the years she’s grown a little tired of administering this free
service. Which is why I’m standing here
right now trying to figure out which hot cereal will lower my cholesterol and
which ones will assassinate me.
I give up. I’ve been
staring at this stupid shelf for ten minutes now. It’s time to call my nutritionist.
Ring! Ring!
Lori: “Areyoubleeding?”
Me: “Uh, what? No!”
Lori: “Ihaveguestsseeyoulater!”
Me: “Wait! Didn’t you say sucralose is the same thing as
HFCS?”
Lori: “Noyouidiotbutit’sbaddon’tbuyitloveyoubyebye!” (Click)
Well, I guess I learned two things: One, don’t buy anything
with sucralose. And two, when it comes
to nutritionists, you get what you pay for.